The Death of Vazir-Mukhtar

The balconies flew off; the houses stood like plucked chickens. Griboedov had been horrified at the thought that Tiflis would melt in the heat. In that struggle, he was on the side of the city. Asia was sluggish and filthy, but its sweat was cooling. Europe à la Tiflis looked like a row of barracks. That is what the main streets looked like.

The city gardens, with their dark foliage, streetlamps, and garden paths, were the soldier’s unrequited love.

In the side streets, the balconies grew like swallows’ nests.

Ermolov backed down. The city won. Tiflis had been, and remained, a city of many balconies.

Now it had spruced itself up, as if expecting a promotion. The striped bridge railings looked a bit like foppish constables. The policemen in their new uniforms, all spick-and-span, sweated profusely at the crossroads of the streets. Matassi’s tavern, which was the Russian underlings’ mecca, was shut down. The sentry’s mournful, sickroom appearance at the door was reminiscent of wartime. Dusty provisions carts stood in a row at the entrance to the long, two-story building where Griboedov had first seen Ermolov. But if you turned right, then went straight on and kept walking up and up, you would reach a wooden house surrounded by a garden. The large wooden house was the place where happiness dwelled.

A stone house is built not for convenience but according to the calculations of people who won’t live in it. For those who do, it often proves uncomfortable. Soon they begin to feel like animals in a cage.

A wooden house is built without calculation. A few years after its construction, the mistress of the house notices with astonishment that the house has changed beyond recognition. To the right, an annex has cropped up out of proportion to the rest of the house; on the left, the cornice (a fine idea—at first) has collapsed, the ivy is madly overgrown and has completely screened the balcony, which has already been patched up a number of times. That the cornice has fallen is probably a good thing; it would have been out of place by now.

The house, however, does not crumble instantly into dust and rubble; rather, it sprawls. All of its parts may undergo alteration, but it is still standing.

The fate of families depends on whether they breed in a stone house or in a wooden one. Animals in cages are always eager to escape. And the parents in a stone house begin to think about how to arrange their son’s career: should it be civil or military, to whom should they marry off their daughter, the old prince or the young bounder.

And the children fly the nest. They leave the stone house like birds on the wing. In a twinkling, the family disintegrates into dust and rubble. Until two little birds are left and they twitter about their estates and the ball and the theater and how expensive everything is and discuss their friends’ flaws. They hobble along for the time being.

In a wooden house, the family does not disintegrate, it sprawls. An absurd annex rises. Someone gets married, bears children, the wife dies. The widower, overgrown with ivy, builds a new cornice—and then, see what happens!—he remarries. Children again, and now the husband dies. The widow remains, and the children have female and male friends from the neighboring house, which has also sprawled, and its bones have already collapsed into the green earth. And the widow takes over the neighbors’ brood as her charges. All of them grow, laugh, seclude themselves in dark corners, kiss, and then two of them get married. An old friend comes for a visit, the widow hasn’t seen her for thirty years and the friend stays forever, and another annex is built, and it looks like nothing on earth.

Which is the mother? The daughter? The son?

Only the house knows the answers: it sprawls.

All its parts are now new.

It’s a mistake to believe that a wooden house is worth less than a stone one: it’s much more valuable. Someone’s piece of inheritance is being sold, someone’s dowry is perishing in the corner; the widow’s capitals plummet, collapse like the cornice, and once again—see what happens!—the money appears as if from nowhere.

At the age of thirteen, Petersburg fledglings and Moscow nestlings, stuck in their boarding schools, write wise, comforting letters to their mother on the occasion of their fathers’ deaths.

At the age of thirteen, they experience a Petersburg white night and a rouged woman. An adolescent may accidentally think about his own mother: not bad-looking at all! And whether by the age of twenty, he will be a clerk or a great poet, or he will break into the safe of his rich and powerful uncle while remembering the delicate verses of a fashionable poet, Evgeny Baratynsky—no one can tell. And then, riding thoughtlessly in a cheap cab along a resounding boulevard, he may feel the warmth of the sun on his nose, tenderly lemony. And he will never forget it.

In a wooden house, an elderly general suffering from gout addresses a complete stranger of a woman (according to the marriage certificate), younger than himself, as “dear mama” and kisses her hand. The general is covered in wrinkles and scars; each scar has a history, but the general is kissing somebody in the corner, oblivious of everything. He feels the warmth of the human cowshed, and like the bullock calf, lows to a strange woman: “dear mama.”

Such is Praskovya Nikolaevna Akhverdova’s muddled household.

General Fyodor Isayevich Akhverdov, the chief of the Caucasus artillery, had a wife, née Princess Justiniani, a Georgian, and a wooden house surrounded by a green garden in Tiflis by St. David Hill. His wife died and left him with two children: Yegorushka and Sonechka. The general did not hang about and, at once, in military fashion got married to Praskovya Nikolaevna. After that, he quickly started to become overgrown with ivy, did not hesitate to sire a daughter, Dashenka, and died soon afterward. Praskovya Nikolaevna was put in charge of the house and the estate, which were left in trust to Egorushka, Sonechka, and Dashenka.

The neighbors’ house was that of the general’s friend, also a general, Prince Alexander Gersevanovich Chavchavadze, and it too had been sprawling. The prince was a poet, a nobleman, jovial and quick-witted, educated at one of the best boarding schools that Petersburg had to offer; he was ten years older than Griboedov. In his youth, he had happened to take part in the Ananuri rebellion, and on that account had been sent into a boring but honorary exile to the Russian town of Tambov. Eight years later, he took part in the suppression of the Kakheti peasant rebellion—and washed off the stain of suspicion. During the 1812 campaign, he was Barclay de Tolly’s adjutant, took part in the conquest of Paris, looked down on the city, covered in thick fog, from the heights of Montreuil, and remembered it forever.

On his return home to Tiflis, he had quarreled with Ermolov. Now, during Paskevich’s campaigns, he was quickly making up for lost time: he was in charge of the Erivan and Nakhchivan areas. While he was at war, his wife, Princess Salome, faded and yawned, like many elderly Georgian women who can no longer love their husbands but fail to find anything else to do; his mother, the old princess, was faddish, sharp-tongued with servants, and as stern as a splinter off Mount Elbrus.

The house was a mixture of the Georgian grandfathers’ luxury, which had been dwindling and fading, and the newer European items, which were already going out of fashion. But Russians were impressed by the carvings that still remained, by the rugs that used to cover the walls, many of which still survived. And there was a large library with bookcases filled with Sa’di and Hafiz, Chakhrukhadze, Goethe, and the new English journals.

In the years when Princess Salome had still been beautiful, the prince had sired three children: Nino, Davidchik, and Katenka. They soon became playmates with the neighbors’ children, and one day, on his way to war and observing his wife’s yawning mouth, the general suddenly made arrangements to entrust Praskovya Nikolaevna with the upbringing of Nino, Katenka, and Davidchik. The transition from Georgia to Russian high society was not hard at all—they only had to cross the street.

So Praskovya Nikolaevna, Sonechka, Yegorushka, Dashenka, Nino, Katenka, and Davidchik started to live together.

Yegorushka’s and Sonechka’s capital plummeted like the cornice, and so did Dashenka’s.

Sonechka grew up, started to look like her mother, Princess Justiniani, and married Colonel Muravyov. The colonel, not young, was stout and grumbly, but the solidity of his character had melted away in some dark corner with Sonechka, and so he began to address Praskovya Nikolaevna as “dear mother.” From time to time, he would come to his senses and grumble.

Every so often, the colonel would go off to the wars; Sonechka bore a daughter, Natasha, with Georgian black eyelashes and a slightly bulbous Muravyov nose. Sonechka and Natasha remained at Praskovya Nikolaevna’s.

They all lived happily together. The wooden house had easily and imperceptibly eaten away the capital of the late general, Fyodor Isayevich Akhverdov. Yegorushka went away to Petersburg, to the Pages Corps, and was sent huge sums of money.

Then Praskovya Nikolaevna plucked up courage; she had always been quick in decision-making and resolved to organize a lottery, with the house and the garden as the prize. The fate of the wooden house now depended on the turning of the lottery wheel. She had collected forty-four thousand rubles from the lottery tickets, and the money went into the children’s trusts. Prince Alexander Gersevanovich Chavchavadze, the general, handed his children over to Praskovya Nikolaevna. The general considered that the lottery was not profitable, and that if the house were repaired, it could be sold for sixty thousand, if not for seventy. He persuaded Praskovya Nikolaevna to take the forty-four thousand from the trust. It soon turned out that although the prince’s bondsmen paid him on time, he was still twenty-five thousand rubles in debt, and Praskovya Nikolaevna lent him that sum. The money was quickly gone without a trace. The general was a daredevil, a dashing fellow, a poet, a translator into Georgian of Byron and Pushkin and knew his Goethe by heart. He drank money like wine.

Egorushka returned from boarding school, either because he hadn’t liked the Corps very much or because he had run out of money within the first six months.

But the house was still going strong; it had survived the lottery.

The garden sprawled.

In the evenings, it brimmed with female laughter.

Sonechka’s husband, Colonel Muravyov, returned from the army, made some arrangements in order to postpone the date of the infamous lottery, bought back some of the tickets (though not all of them). But then he gave up and went back to his regiment. The rest of the lottery tickets were later bought back, one by one. Or, to be precise, they were somehow forgotten about. Egorushka’s and Sonechka’s inheritance had been misspent on some fishing concerns and glass factory stocks.

Dashenka, Yegorushka, Nino, Katenka, and Davidchik were growing. Praskovya Nikolaevna always had lots of visitors, in great numbers.

A St. Petersburg or Moscow fledgling could stay in their house unnoticed and subsequently grow into a stepson, a nephew, a thrice-removed cousin, or someone related so remotely that they could no longer understand the exact connection.

He remembered the first days and months of his stay here. It had taken a long time for him to free himself from his slumber; he moved like a shadow, as if bewitched by Moscow and Petersburg; his heart was not here. The city, women, skies, bazaar were as incomprehensible to him as the chatter in the streets. And the chatter was breathless and suffocating, stuttering, incessant. And then, one day, going up the hill to the Akhverdovs, he suddenly realized that he had a genuine fondness for the people of Tiflis, who knew each other and lived together in the Eastern way, and that he had been cured. And the chatter turned into a language; he began to listen to it, to go for evening strolls. And then Moscow high society, which he had left, began to grow threadbare; he was able to see through it, it became alien. He ceased to fear it, and his Moscow aunts now seemed utterly ludicrous from a distance. He remembered the grimaces of his female cousins and their grievances, the bragging, and the patronage of the Moscow elders, and the senseless fussing in the vestibules by the cloakrooms filled with fur coats. He decided that now, no more would he ride that way, and then, as if from a distant vantage, he saw himself in Moscow and was appalled: just three months earlier, he might have committed such a folly, might have married a cousin and settled in Moscow. Thank you, Lord, for giving her enough sense to marry somebody else. He cast a glance back at his city, and this was how his Woe was seen from Tiflis’s high point, from St. David Hill. There was a lot of open space here.

He settled in Tiflis, and it became his second homeland, and he no longer saw it aslant, just as people never notice how they breathe. And now a short absence had once again knocked him out of his customary routine. He looked at the city again from on high, as he used to do eight years earlier, and saw the inner courtyards and the cell-like galleries of the balconies, the simple human honeycomb. He pushed open the little gate.

There was no one in the garden; thick grapevines covered the trellises, and the paths formed deep, damp, musty vistas. On the sidelines, in the large winemaking yard, the marani, he could hear the voices of the workers repairing the huge, hollow earthenware vessels—the kvevri; he could also hear water running nearby. These were the only cool sounds; it was a long time until night. He entered the house.

When the children were young, they had secrets. They used to be afraid of the old man who sold coal. They ran to Praskovya Nikolaevna and huddled at her knees. Griboedov used to tease them. He composed a ditty:

The children ran to mommy,

Too scared to go to bed,

A tramp is at the window

Look, mama, there’s his head!

He used to sing the number at the pianoforte and called the coalman a “bedlamite.” So they called the highwaymen on the Georgian roads. He would widen his eyes and whisper: “Bedlamites.”

Bedlamites roamed around the house. Inside the house, the crickets chirped like mad.

All of a sudden the children were now grown-ups. The girls were of marriageable age, and the bedlamites were busy robbing people on the highways. Praskovya Ivanovna hardly knew how to deal with the unexpected puberty of her daughters and stepdaughters. The guests who had just left were:

The Marquis de Sevigny (a Greek or a Frenchman), who gazed at Dashenka open-mouthed, like a craftsman who was exhausted after completing an elaborate artifact but still kept mulling it over.

The governor, a young Pole, Zavileisky. In his eyes, Praskovya Nikolaevna’s balcony was for Tiflis what Nesselrode’s salon was for Petersburg.

Mr. Ivanov, the active state councillor whom, for brevity’s sake, Ermolov referred to simply as “a scoundrel”—he had a fisheries business in Salyany and happened to accumulate most of the lottery tickets for the garden.

Sofya Fyodorovna Burtsova, the colonel’s wife, whose husband was at war. And—Madame or Signora Castellas (French or Spanish), the wife of the silk plantation and factory owner, a magnificent phenomenon.

The last to leave was a guest of importance, Captain Iskritsky, Faddei Bulgarin’s nephew.

His rank was low, but his position was rather special; he was an exile, implicated in the Decembrist uprising.

Praskovya Nikolaevna was a free-thinker. She proudly informed everybody who cared to listen that an order had been issued from Petersburg to place Sonechka’s husband, Nikolai Nikolaevich Muravyov, under surveillance. She talked about it in loud whispers and shuddered. Such an order had indeed been issued: to follow Nikolai Nikolaevich, because many people with the same surname had been involved in the revolt.

Iskritsky was Faddei’s nephew, a captain, a topographer, an exile, though for the life of him, Griboedov could not understand what was so heroic about his simple face and blond head. And when he saw how upset the captain was that Faddei had completely forgotten him and had not sent his regards, Griboedov felt sorry for him. He soon left.

And then the real jolly highwaymen showed up: Davidchik and his friends. They met Zavileisky halfway to his house and brought him back. All of them chattered loudly, laughed a lot, and then quieted down all at once and ran out to the garden. He had known them all since they were kids. And now all of them were grown-ups, lively and talkative. He was surprised by their friendship with Zavileisky, an outsider. They feasted their eyes on Griboedov and told him every piece of the Tiflis news.

Griboedov looked at Nino, who seemed somnolent and heavy-lidded despite her young age. Then he shifted his glance to Princess Salome, quite withered and impassive; the risible Dashenka also caught his eye, as she was an absolute delight; Sonechka, who had just finished nursing her baby, looked at him closely. He had been in love with her, like all the young people who had frequented the Akhverdovs. He made Nino sit at the pianoforte, remarked absentmindedly on the excellent condition of the leather-padded hammers in their piano and on her having lost her touch.

The older ones left so as not to interfere with the impromptu lesson.

The sonatina that they played together was a mechanical repetition of what she had already learned

But at that moment, a guitar tinkled beneath the windows, as if it had been waiting for Nino’s pianoforte to stop. Somewhere not far away, across the road, down the lane, a sweet flutelike voice sang:

In love with you, my pretty maid …

And Nino burst out laughing, opening her mouth a little as she had not done before.

… pu-ritty may-ed …

Griboedov suddenly livened up. He was listening.

The maid of the mountains, my beautiful maid …

In the open window of the house across the road behind the trees, one could see the tip of a young nose turned upward and a necktie quivering and fluttering from underneath the unbuttoned collar.

Nino and Dashenka looked at each other and laughed. Griboedov came alive. How charming Dashenka was!

I met a Circassian girl in the mountains …

The performer took on a note much too high for him, and his voice cracked.

Moonlight was falling on the black leaves of the trees, and the street was lit by a different warm yellow light, issuing from the window of the young man in love wearing that necktie. He had to be some minor clerk. It was the very same old silly moonlight that had been extolled by hosts of poets, whom Griboedov had ridiculed so much. The clerk was in love and sang the tritest of love songs.

But now, entering that strip of light, Griboedov sighed and hung his head. The clerk’s light was warm, yellow; it flickered and swayed: the wind was trying to blow the candle out. What force, what hostile space had again separated him from the clerk’s light—so silly, so laughable, and yet joyful to the point of tears?

Would his life be forever weighed down by those awkward words uttered by him in the fury of his heart—“woe from wit”?

Where did the coldness come from, this empty breeze between him and other people?

He stepped out of the strip of light.

Two people went ahead of him, speaking quietly.

He did not overtake them. He walked behind them, blessing human backs that in the semidarkness appeared to be of a soft, blurred color. Chance people in the street, accidental backs of passers-by—many blessings on you!

He overheard a quiet conversation.

“Wedding or not, my dear, you have to pay ten thousand right on the nail. I cannot ruin myself over you. Are you actually getting married?”

The wider and shorter back spoke with the voice of the tax farmer Ivanov. The other back, thin and flexible, responded in an impossibly false and piping voice.

“That’s for sure. I’ve been promised. Please, two more months, Monsieur Ivanoff. Lately, I’ve been very very …

(And what force of persuasion was in the word “very.”)

“… lucky at cards.”

“From what I hear you have recently been beaten up for cheating, my dear man …”

The flexible back belonged to the Greek Sevigny.

Griboedov stopped. A dead green branch was level with his head. Through it, he could see a patch of sky and some stars, as strange as moral law.

It was nighttime. Praskovya Nikolaevna’s balcony had emptied; no young people left, with their chirpy gossip, with breath that couldn’t be contained in one chest and needed to be imparted to another. That was why she loved the young. She was quick-witted and portly. Praskovya Nikolaevna listened to Princess Salome distractedly.

She was thinking: the heartache, things no longer go right … not so good … no letters from Muravyov … not good … her repayments to Ivanov had been postponed, but still not good … Finally she remembered the glance that Griboedov had cast at Princess Salome, which left her speechless. That was definitely not good, not at all. The princess shouldn’t come here. She did not know why. He seemed to be comparing her to Nino. It had happened before that the off-putting sight of a mother who looked too much like her daughter had repelled the daughter’s suitor. That unpleasant thought made her grow pale, and her thoughts leaped to Nino. She couldn’t work out whether the girl was in love or, on the contrary, completely indifferent. Sonechka’s husband, Nikolai Nikolaevich Muravyov, had warned her: Griboedov was a flippant and flighty fellow. His love for Nino was a shallow thing, a matter of calculation. Nino belonged to the Georgian nobility, and Griboedov had certain intentions in Georgia. That didn’t mean there was anything wrong with his motives. And what motives might they be? Might there be an honorable one? And suppose it were not honorable at all? She would be blamed. Ah, men are all the same. And God knows what schemes and stratagems Nikolai Nikolaevich had been up to before he married Sonechka.

But something in all of it did not ring true, and Praskovya Nikolaevna was cross with Princess Salome, who couldn’t care less, and she had no one to ask for advice except probably Sipiagin. He was very clever, but what a butterfly brain, a flibbertigibbet! And she suddenly told the princess about the young Castellas:

“I don’t like Martha and receive her only out of politeness. I don’t care for these foreign women. She is good-looking and well dressed, but somewhat … rigid. Like one of those bare-bosomed statues in a Bologna or a Barcelona fountain, with these Italian children lying in her lap.”

The princess replied abruptly:

“But they say that Mrs. Castellas … This old man … Ce vieillard affreux3 … General Sipiagin …”

Praskovya Nikolaevna responded sternly:

“This is not for us to judge, princess—we are not that old yet. And Sipiagin is not affreux at all.”

And she suddenly criticizes Sofya Fyodorovna Burtsova, the colonel’s wife, of whom she is very fond.

“I disapprove of Sophie. Her husband is at war, fighting campaigns, sleeping in the field, and she has taken a lover. And who is the chosen one?” she asks the princess.

“Mais on dit …,”⁴ smiles the princess.

“My point exactly,” says Praskovya Nikolaevna, “what they say is true. The lover is Zavileisky; this is who the chosen one is.” And she shakes her head reproachfully. “While her husband sleeps in the field … I don’t like these types of women, the quiet ones: nice and fluffy, like kittens, don’t you think?” She is lost for the right word and suddenly adds: “And how are the poor princes Baratov doing?”

Princess Salome becomes agitated. She is friendly with the Baratovs. The princes Baratov forged the papers confirming their nobility and their princely title. Since Petersburg was afraid of princes resuming their oligarchic freedoms, they began to acknowledge them sparingly and ordered each of them to prove their right to their title. It turned out that almost none of the princes had the proper papers. Tiflis had turned into a large factory manufacturing fake princes; attached to the documents were the seals of King Heraclius and Teimuraz of Kakheti, and King Bakar of Kartli, all of the same stamp. The trouble was that there turned out to be too many claimants to the same estate. There was a squabble, the mutual denunciations flew to Petersburg, and a number of princes were taken into custody.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you, ma chère, to have a word with Griboedov.”

Praskovya Nikolaevna suddenly feels embarrassed:

“Why? I am sure he’ll agree. I am sure,” she says hesitantly. “He has always been a close friend and ever so kind. He is crazy about Nino.” She speaks rather forlornly to Princess Salome.

“Has it been decided yet?” asks the princess in whispers.

“Nothing is decided just like that, so suddenly, princess. It’s never that quick. He is in love, that’s all.”

“But isn’t he leaving for Persia?”

“He is. So what? Just for a month. Nino pines for him too. She is still so young!”

Princess Salome eyes Praskovya Nikolaevna warily and waits. Praskovya Nikolaevna gives a sigh.

“I wonder whether Alexander Gersevanovich will give his consent.”

The princess nods meaningfully at the mention of her husband’s name.

“I suppose Alexander Gersevanovich is not in much of a position to refuse,” says Praskovya Nikolaevna. “Griboedov is a minister plenipotentiary in his early thirties, and an even brighter future awaits him. And what a man! A musician, a thinker, and such nobility of sentiment!”

The princess says indifferently:

“I’d like to ask Monsieur Griboié-dof”—she pronounces his name as two words—”when he goes to Persia to take with him Rustam-bek and Dadash-bek. They are nice young men and can be of service to him. They have nothing to do here, and my cousin, Princess Orbeliani, asked me to put in a word.”

Praskovya Nikolaevna gives her a weary nod:

“Certainly, princess.”

When the princess leaves, Praskovya Nikolaevna gazes at the black garden … not good … Marquis Sevigny, who has proposed to Dashenka … not clear. She has declined, very politely, which looks more like a postponement. Dear Lord, was this how people fell in love when she was young? Were there such suitors at that time?”

Lots of people, lots of worries. The unpleasant things in the house: that fool Sophie will get herself into trouble. Alexander looks at everyone with the eyes of an alien … Martha Castellas is so unpleasant … And the house has been sprawling. You simply can’t be sure of people these days. And dear God, how cheerfully, how well they could all live, if only … To hell with them, the money, the wooden-headed princess, to hell with her. The children have grown up, and who will guide them and help them settle down? And how much Alexander has changed!”

The blue sheets of his project, with the swirling flourishes above the i’s that looked like the smoke of the nonexistent factories—were they calculation or love?

The cow-eyed girl, tall, not Russian—was she love or calculation?

And the Caucasus earth?

Three of the captured Persian khans are kept in a spacious vaulted cellar of the fortress, next to the house of the military governor, General Sipiagin.

Sipiagin orders the cell to be made comfortable, and the khans sit on the carpets. They are served pilaf, and they eat their meals slowly, without saying a word. Outside, in the huge black cauldron of the dark night, the cook is stirring the stars with a giant spoon. The khans do not turn toward the windows.

When the duty officer comes to remove the plates and then brings sweets drenched in honey, the khans wipe their greasy fingers on the sides of their gowns and burp gently, out of politeness, demonstrating that they are full. The governor-general feeds them very well indeed.

In fact, the khans have put on weight; they have nothing to complain about, and the only thing they are deprived of is their wives. As they talk, they enjoy recalling the particularly delicious dishes, not from the governor-general’s kitchen that they are fed now, but from their native cuisine.

Then they recall in detail the especially enjoyable caresses of their wives, and their fingers move, their mouths half-open.

They burp quietly.

Then comes the time for an important conversation.

A bearded and stout khan, the former sardar of Erivan, tells the other one, with the thin beard:

“Fat’h-Ali, may his days last forever, will not be too unhappy with our imprisonment, for when the Russian general spoke to us about important matters, we described everything in glowing colors. Abu’l-Qasim-Khan is aware of this.”

Abu’l-Qasim-Khan was sent by Abbas Mirza to Tiflis to meet the ambassador and to conduct the negotiations regarding the prisoners. He has had a meeting with them, but the khan actually embellishes it now because even though Sipiagin regales them with delicious things, he does not speak to them.

“The other day,” says the narrow-bearded one, “the kafechi told us that a Russian regiment would soon arrive and regrettably take away our gold and the scrolls from the Ardabil library, which of course the Russians will be unable to read.”

“Does Hassan-Khan know what regiment it is?” says the third, gray-haired khan, who hasn’t heard anything about it.

“Abu’l-Qasim has told me that this regiment fought for Shah-zade Nicholas against Shah-zade Constantine.”

The corpulent khan is no longer surprised at anything at all. The Russian throne, like the Persian one, is taken by the son who has won. When the old shah dies, he will leave three hundred and one sons, and they will slaughter each other until one of them prevails. Such is the law of the Persian (and, as it turns out, the Russian) succession to the throne.

“Fat’h-Ali-shah, may his eyes shine, is not too old,” says the sardar of Erivan.

Fat’h-Ali-shah is seventy. When he dies, the sardar who is friendly with Abbas Mirza will hope to become governor of Tabriz.

No matter how small a palace is or how overcrowded it is with furniture, it always looks like a hotel, and its walls, hastily upholstered with Gobelin tapestries, still look bare. At best, its contents, like old servants, agree to serve their guests for life because palaces have no owners, only lodgers.

Dr. Adelung and Maltsov were allocated rooms at the palace.

First of all, the doctor put his suitcase, which looked like nothing at all, on the chair, and placed a travel inkwell on top of the carved table and sat there in his nightgown writing down his entry in a travel diary.

Maltsov moved about the palace like an upstart. In spite of his nobility, he stepped carefully, as if apologizing to the furniture.

After a while, he found something to do. He became Eliza’s escort, chevalier servant.

Countess Paskevich had recently arrived in Tiflis.

Two months earlier, she’d had a faussecouche, a miscarriage, and she was pale, vexed, and desperately bored. Some wicked tongues wagged that General Paskevich was so petrified of her and her moods that he was out of Tiflis like a shot—to attack the Turks, as if trying to prove first to her, and only then to the rest of the world, his right to be called a great military leader.

Griboedov knew her well and understood the meaning of the thick raised eyebrows, of the faint mustache over the upper lip. They were related, they were Griboedov, to a man and to a woman.

He had firmly established the rules governing their relations.

First, she was his mother’s niece, Griboedov’s Moscow cousin, which meant that they talked about Nastasya Fyodorovna and his uncle, Alexei Fyodorovich, the one who used to come into his bedroom with a walking stick and drag him out on visits. So Griboedov and Eliza had well-mannered conversations, not without a chuckle, at the expense of the older people, but entirely innocuous, like those of grown-up children. They recalled their past pranks, the innocent ones. They did not recall the other pranks.

Second, he spoke to her as the wife of Ivan Fyodorovich Paskevich, respectfully and briskly, with significant omissions.

And third, she was his benefactor and all that sort of thing, but they hinted at that only occasionally and ever so slightly.

And if, on a couple of occasions, she had kept his hand in hers with a cold expression on her face, her plump mouth slightly ajar, well, that was what Maltsov was for.

Maltsov entertained her with anecdotes about Napoleon (the previous year, he had had a small article published in the Moscow Herald and was proud of it) and with Sobolevsky’s witticisms—and was a huge success.

Griboedov had a slight aversion toward relatives. Eliza reminded him of that dear mother of his. In their youth, a long time ago, the Moscow cousin had been very pretty indeed, but he had no intention of renewing the old comedy, either now or later.

So Maltsov and Adelung were fine and settled.

But Sashka began to exhibit alarming tendencies.

He spoke little and abruptly. He had changed his attitude toward the female gender, had no time for the chambermaids, and they would fall silent in his presence. On the day after his arrival, he appeared in front of Griboedov in strange attire: in Griboedov’s own Georgian chekmen. He strolled slowly along the street, and Eliza’s chambermaid walked next to him, gasping, quivering, and looking up to him. Each of them carried the shopping. Griboedov pretended not to notice, but he did not forget it.

He always treated trifles with great care.

So at night, he stole downstairs to Sashka’s quarters and took away his boots.

In the morning, he pulled the bell with anticipation. Sashka took a long time to show up.

Finally he appeared, his boots on.

Griboedov put his spectacles on and stared at his feet.

Sashka stood there as if nothing had happened.

“Alexander,” said Griboedov sternly, “you sleep too much. Off you go!”

He threw out Sashka’s boots in disgust.

Sashka happened to have two pairs.

Upon his return, Griboedov went quietly to check on Sashka.

Best of all in the palace, Griboedov liked the low-ceilinged corridor, the gallery that connected the apartments with the services. The corridor was as old as Ermolov. Occasionally, the shoes of the sleepy servants shuffled along, or the white clouds of chambermaids swished by. And now, at night, Griboedov stood in this part of the palace, unbefitting his status, taking the risk of startling a passing valet. He was peeping into Sashka’s room through the window in the door, low and half veiled.

How attracted he was to the secret lives of others!

Sashka was sitting in the chair surrounded by the cooks, footmen, and some pipe-smokers with black mustaches. An apprentice cook stood there too, his mouth wide open.

Sashka was reading.

“ ‘Everyone knew I was a poor orphan…. Not a single soul in the household had ever been kind to me, except the good old dog who, like me, had been left to fend for itself …’”

Griboedov listened avidly.

Sashka was reading The Little Orphan, Faddei Bulgarin’s new composition, the first chapter of his projected lengthy novel, Vyzhigin. The prophecy was fulfilling itself …

“‘There was neither a corner I could call mine in that house, nor any food …’”

… Faddei had revealed before their parting:

“I am now writing a proper novel, old boy, with adventures, in which the hero suffers like a dog until he wins his riches. A wealthy person, my friend, will always be pleased to read about somebody who is cold and suffering while warming themselves by a magnificent fireplace. And it is equally gratifying to read about it, my friend, in a hovel, because it all ends well, in prosperity.”

But Sashka, the rascal, had stolen the book out of the desk drawer before Griboedov had had a chance to read it first. Sashka went on reading:

“ ‘In winter, they used me instead of a machine for turning the spit …’”

The cook grunted and suddenly said, displeased:

“How can a machine turn the spit? The spit is always turned by a man.”

And here’s the first critic, thought Griboedov.

“I presume,” said Sashka without taking his eyes off the book, in a calm voice, “that he means an English machine …”

Bravo, Sashka!

“ ‘Seeing how other children clung up to their mommies and nannies, I cuddled up to my pooch and called it mommy and nanny, hugged her, kissed her, pressed her to my chest, and rolled about with her in the sand.’”

Ugh! What sentimental slop! Just like Faddei, silly swine, sweet old darling!

The man wearing the black chekmen suddenly pulled the pipe out of his mouth, stirred, and spat. His face turned red …

“A dog is hardly a mother,” he said, and tensed. “You can’t call a dog your ‘mama.’”

Sashka finally raised his clear blue eyes.

“The fact that a dog cannot be one’s mama is a detail,” he said, emphasizing the word mama. “But a child can kiss a dog all right. And if you don’t approve of the scene with the turning of the spit …”

No, Sashka’s countercriticism ought to be sent to Faddei and published in Son of the Fatherland.

“… and if you don’t care for the dog and even mama, you don’t have to read the novel at all.”

Aha, after all, he has been offended.

Everyone was quiet.

“ ‘I was longing to love people,” continued Sashka, “ ‘particularly women, but I couldn’t feel anything for them, but fear.’”

“And this happens quite often,” Sashka said suddenly and coldly, “sometimes not only a child, but even a grown-up man doesn’t know how to talk to ladies.”

But he’s got a talent, damn it—he is a born reviewer! He must have read Senkovsky. Sashka, a fashionable critic.

Stepping gingerly with his long shoes, Griboedov stole back into his spacious, white room, which reminded him of an office at the ministry, and rang the bell.

Sashka showed up, displeased.

“Alexander,” said Griboedov languorously. “Alexander Dmitriyevich, would you be so kind as to brush my uniform for tomorrow?”

And as Sashka said nothing, Griboedov continued:

“I would have never thought of bothering you, Alexander Dmitriyevich, but unfortunately, there will be a large parade, and wouldn’t you agree that I’d be ashamed to show off a uniform that you, sir, have not once touched with the brush? Wouldn’t you agree, sir?”

He was rocking up and down in the chair.

“Absolutely,” said Sashka impassively.

“Thank you, sir. Could you tell me, Alexander Dmitriyevich,” Griboedov continued to rock, “have we had any visitors today, sir?”

“We have,” said Sashka.

“Who are they, Alexander Dmitriyevich?”

“The tsars.”

The chair stopped; Griboedov looked at Sashka earnestly.

“The tsars?” he asked slowly.

“Yes, Your Honor,” responded Sashka with no emotion, “the tsar’s sons, tsareviches.”

“Tsareviches?” asked Griboedov, completely dumbfounded. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“The tsareviches are our neighbors,” said Sashka brusquely, “Tsarina Sofya’s godfathers or godsons, I am not sure. The coachman Ivan (here they call them bicho—something like a stableman or a groom) …”

“What about him?”

“He knows them well.”

“Who—Ivan? The one who drove us around the town?”

“No, he carried our trunks. The one who drove us around the town was Amlikh.”

“And who is he?”

“Amlikh?”

“Whatever his name … You said ‘Ivan.’”

“The one who drove us around the town was Amlikh, not Ivan. Ivan is looking after the horses, and this one is a porter.”

“Well, fine, very well, a porter … So, who is the porter?”

“The coachman Ivan is the son of a major, and Amlikh is …”

“Are you having me on, canaille?”

“Not at all. Yesterday, Ivan received a deputation.”

“De-pu-ta-tion?!”

“From their serfs, the Georgian ones, of course. They looked pretty wretched—you could say, practically in rags—and said that they had nothing to eat. They are very much impoverished here.”

Griboedov was lost for words.

“Get the hell out of here!” He waved his hands at Sashka and shouted after him: “You’ve stolen a book from my suitcase. Are you telling me that these tsars of yours read in Russian? Damn you!”

Sashka chuckled rather smugly.

“One of them does, but their understanding is quite different, of course.”

Griboedov had already forgotten the uniform. He was pacing up and down the room.

Sashka was an unfathomable liar, fabulous, fantastic. He lied even when it seemed impossible. He had imagination. Once he had clenched his teeth and told Griboedov that the time would come when he would prove who he really was.

“And who do you think you are?” Griboedov had asked him.

Sashka was evasive at first and then blurted out:

“I am … my father was a count—‘graf.’” My surname is Grafov, meaning ‘count’s son.’ Later, it became ‘Gribov.’”

And Griboedov had a good long laugh, but then it occurred to him that Sashka’s surname, Gribov, was strangely like his own, Griboedov, and the fact that he too was called Alexander struck him as unusual. Trubetskoi had called his illegitimate son by a Swedish woman “Betsky,” and Rumyantsev named his bastard “Myantsev.” This was customary. Perhaps Griboedov’s own dear papa had followed the custom as well?

Sashka was obviously lying, and lying shamelessly. About the peasant delegation, possibly about the coachman Ivan and about the tsars. “Godfathers”! And yet Griboedov paced the room, dumbfounded. “They are very much impoverished here.” It’s beyond comprehension! Faddei’s novel, Sashka, the coachman Ivan, the deputation, the tsars. Sashka was like Scheherazade in the One Thousand and One Nights. The Caucasus was a strange place! And how quickly the indigenous aristocracy went downhill!

And indeed, what was the Caucasus?

This is how Lomonosov described Tsarina Elizabeth, the daughter of Peter the Great, sitting on the throne:

She sits, stretching her legs out far

Across the steppes, where the Great Wall

Keeps the Sinese apart from us.

She looks out with a cheerful smile

And, counting her riches on all sides,

She leans upon the Caucasus.

Such was the uncomfortable pose adopted by Elizabeth. It must have been difficult for her to stretch her legs out far across the steppes and to lean upon the Caucasus and still look cheerful, while at the same time counting her riches. The calculations must have been particularly difficult because even though Derbent, the gate to the Caspian Sea, had been conquered by Peter the Great in 1722, it had then been recaptured by Persia, and the Russian female and infant successors of Peter had other concerns.

In a musical sense, Persia was a key, while the Caucasus was a string. When the key was struck, the string made a sound. When Derbent was lost, Elizabeth had to cease leaning on the Caucasus with her elbow. She simply could not count her riches over there.

Admiral Marko Voinovich experienced those riches first-hand under Catherine the Great. Agha Mohammad, the eunuch, the Persian shah, politely invited him to attend a celebration, and promptly put him in shackles as a punishment for his calculation of riches on the southern shores of the Caspian Sea. In 1769, Catherine requested the College of Foreign Affairs to send her a precise map of the Caucasus. She was unsure as to the exact location of the city of Tiflis: some maps placed it on the Black Sea, others on the Caspian, and then still others inland. The eunuch and she had been involved in mutual hand-slapping; he would rap her knuckles, and she would dodge and try to slap his wrists. All the while, the Caucasus lay between their elbows.

Then, in 1796, Derbent was taken by the armed forces of the one-legged Count Zubov, whose nickname in the Caucasus was Kizil-Aiag, “Golden Leg.”

And immediately, Derzhavin provided a faithful description of the Caucasus in terms of an Alpine landscape:

There chamois bow their horns

And peer placidly into the murk below,

The dwelling place of thunderstorms.

The frosty old man was particularly successful in portraying the Alpine ice:

The sun beams bright amid the ice

And the reflecting waters play

Creating splendid scenery.

Tsar Paul advanced two regiments to Tiflis, and in 1802 declared the annexation of two Georgian regions, Kartli and Kakheti.

Although Derbent had already been conquered by Russia, the pop-eyed emperor Paul had to recapture it in 1806.

The Magnificent Port lay to the west from Imereti, Mingrelia, and Guria.

The pashalyks5 of Akhaltsikhe and Kars belonged to the Ottomans.

The khanates of Erivan, Nakhchivan, and Khoi were in the south, adjacent to Persia. And then there were some suspicious sultanates and khanates, either Persian or Turkish, or possibly no one’s at all.

Paul’s son, Emperor Alexander, faced a difficult task: he was trying to observe a European balance. To juggle France while standing on Austria’s shoulders, and all of them walking the tightrope, was a hard and thankless task. Alexander didn’t want anything to do with the Caucasus or any Persian schemes; he was the ringmaster and the chief juggler in Europe, and if he had allowed himself to get involved in Asian affairs, he would have dropped France and would have been dropped by Austria. He waved Ermolov away as if he were a horseman who had entered the arena at the wrong time.

Who lived in the Caucasus? Who populated it?

Zhukovsky tried to sketch out a brief list claiming that

There nestle the Shapsugs, Bahs, and Abazehs,

Balkars, Abazins, Kamukins,

Karabulaks, and Chechereis.

—and when they did not leap, like chamois, from rock to rock, they stayed at home and smoked their pipes.

The music of their names sounded foreign, like drums, splendid, alien, and actually excessive because there were neither Kamukin nor Checherei tribes in the Caucasus. There were Kumyks but nothing like the Chechereis. They were unlikely to be nestling in there. Persian stories were coming into fashion.

In his 1825 tale “Orsan and Leila,” Platon Obodovsky provided a touching picture of the life of the Ararat and the Persian shah:

Like an old oak on Ararat

Withering on desiccated roots

A solitary padishah

On a gold throne exhausted sits.

That the padishah was sitting exhausted on a throne of gold might have contained a grain of truth, but to imagine an oak withering at a height of 17,000 feet was dubious to say the least. It would be quite impossible for an oak to grow there. And besides, the khanate of Erivan had not been conquered yet.

But its time soon came. The khans now served in the Russian army as generals and major-generals, but in the official reports, they were still referred to as “the khanate scum.” Each of them could not wait for their new fatherland to falter, if not on Persia, then on Turkey.

The problem was the principalities (or pashalyks) of Akhaltsikhe and Kars. No one knew what the outcome was going to be. Paskevich, fearing the evil eye of his wife, Eliza, was now in action over there.

The war in the Caucasus went on all the time, either with the mythical Kamukins or with the nonexistent Chechereis. And if it not Kotlyarevsky, then somebody else “crushed the tribes and wiped them out,” as Pushkin so enthusiastically expressed it.

Essentially, nobody asked themselves why and to what end the perpetual war was waged. The dispatches always made it clear that Russia was succeeding in bringing to submission some tribe, either the Kamukins or the Chechereis.

And the war had been dragging on and the tribes had been fighting back, perhaps even those very same Chechereis. Nesselrode referred to all the Caucasus tribes as les cachétiens, remembering the somewhat sour taste of the Kakheti wines.

Neither Emperor Nicholas nor Volkonsky, nor Chernyshev, knew what would happen if the entire Caucasus were suddenly conquered by Russia. What they did know was this:

If Persia won, the Caucasus would rebel.

If Turkey won, the Caucasus would be sure to rebel.

And what exactly were they fighting for in the Caucasus?

It is a strange recital, incomprehensible to anybody but geographers or children. Anyone entering the room will hear a diligent man with soft mustaches repeating the mantra:

“Darachichag iron-ore mine in Armenia, in Magale, ten miles away from the village Bash-Abaran, fifty-eight miles from Erevan.”

“Natural deposits: granite, dark-green diorite, gray serpentine, and obsidian—black with red streaks …”

And the other man, bespectacled, nods and repeats:

“Obsidian … Forget the mines for now.”

“The silk-farms are tended by the rechbars6 in the Shakhi province. The rechbars have fled and the cocoons yielded no silk thread.”

“Cotton in Sanji province, in rather small quantities … They could produce raisins if they mastered the French method …”

Tobacco smoke hangs in the air like cottonwool threads.

“In the Shirvan area, the iuz-bashi⁷ abuse their powers: four thousand eight hundred pounds of silk have been harvested, four hundred and sixty thousand rubles were due to the treasury, and only one hundred and twenty have been received. General Sipiagin personally …”

“All the better. Forget Sipiagin. Enter the figures into the report.”

“Kakheti indigo …”

“Erivani wild cochineal.”

“The coffee-tree—teak, which does not rot in water, would enable us to build ships better than the European ones …”

What is the Caucasus?

Saffron, cochineal, madder are just words. But the words are already stored in an empty room like the sheaves, bales, and bundles of the future, and one’s feet wade through something, what is it: scraps of madder? silkworms? A bare room in a palace, neither Russian nor Georgian, has turned into a trading office.

“They won’t be able to look at Transcaucasia as a colony that can supply Russia only with natural resources.”

“Why not?” inquires another triumphantly.

“Because there are no suitable roads for their transportation,” Griboedov responds craftily, “and because there are no such factories in Russia as yet.”

Zavileisky twists his Polish mustaches and asks him a question, quietly and cautiously:

“Once the manufacturing in the Caucasus has been established and grows considerably richer, might it not weaken the mutual links with Russia?”

It isn’t an idle question. Governor Zavileisky, whom Griboedov has chosen as his confidant, is warm and friendly, loquacious, and very pleasant with the ladies of the monde. But when he gets tired of his role, it becomes apparent that he is a cautious man and not so warm and friendly after all, that he is a foreigner, a Pole. And he might be so exceedingly urbane because he is mostly preoccupied with himself and his own thoughts. He knows Mickiewicz by heart. He is precise, and with no fuss has amassed a huge amount of data for the project. And he has already asked Griboedov the question he now repeats. What weakening of ties is he worried about? With the Caucasus or with Poland? The very Tiflis air is now uncertain.

Griboedov waves his hand casually:

“Let us not get so much ahead of ourselves. Time will tell. We Russians are good at shooting but bad at bulletmaking.”

And if a man of the previous age, for example Griboedov’s dear papa, Sergei Ivanovich, had entered that room, he would have thought that two boys, one bespectacled and one mustachioed one, were playing a strange and rather tedious game, which seemed to be called Ge-o-gra-phy, while ladies, maids, and whores were awaiting their embraces and their horses awaited their spurs.

Having paid closer attention to what they were saying, he might have exclaimed:

“His mother’s tricks. Cupidity. Never thought Alexander would end up a tradesman.”

Because dear papa Sergei Ivanovich was a simple forthright man.

And only an old Englishman, one of the founders of the East India Company, would blow out his cigar smoke and say mockingly, but with complete understanding:

“Yes, Russians are good at shooting but bad at bulletmaking.”

And he would brush down his sideburns, place a top hat on his solid bulbous head, and set off for a Cabinet meeting at St. James’s Palace.

The Cabinet was dissolved for the summer, and the ministers were splashing about in the various lagoons of the Mediterranean like long, listless fish.

A slanting rain was falling in Petersburg; Nesselrode had moved to Tsarskoe Selo.

Such were the diplomatic affairs. Wounded Russian soldiers were recovering in the field hospitals, the Cossacks’ horses were swimming onto the Turkish shores. The white room was empty. Only a Russian author sat at the desk, moving his long fingers. The heat was unbearable, and he had nothing on apart from his undergarments. He was all by himself. Zavileisky, with his fluffy Polish mustaches, had left.

The project was not working out, it was somehow falling apart. Not the project itself, which was clear-cut and faultless. The trouble was with the workforce, and the funds … And yet perhaps this was how any state was created?

He was sipping wine; the wine was imported and smelled slightly oily; the wineskins in which it was transported had been greased with crude oil.

“Soldiers! You have shown the enemy the iron fist of His Majesty’s victorious troops! …”

The gray square dappled like a frying pan with a medley of tomatoes, capers, and fish being fried in it. The fish scales were the soldiers in their uniforms.

General Sipiagin was riding a white steed and waved a white-kid-gloved hand. The horse under him was prancing; the sun was striking the general’s rounded, arched, corseted torso. From the terrace above, it seemed as if a bullet had struck the general and that he was falling backward and had frozen in his fall.

“Soldiers! The campaign is over, and our objective has been successfully achieved by military force!”

Ahead of the regiment stood the carts—each with four velvet-caped horses, and between them there were long-barreled cannon. The horses were covered. Only the front cart was uncovered, and on it stood a throne of dull yellow gold. The drummers’ hands with the drumsticks began to twitch. They were waiting for the general to finish his speech. From the terrace above, the parade looked like a military funeral come to a halt; the throne was the deceased military leader, and the other carts were the nameless dead.

A joint Guards regiment returning from Persia bringing kurors and trophies was marching past the residence of the military governor-general.

The regiment was a special one. It consisted of the remnants of the Moscow Regiment and parts of the House Guards. Their fragments had been reshuffled and carefully reassembled from the wreckage after they had been taken captive by other Russian regiments in the Senate Square in December 1825 and done their time in jail and fortress. And at the head of each division, there was a particularly trusted officer. The commander too was special. He was the Guards commander who had been thrown down the barracks stairs by the junior officers during the December uprising. His plunge down the stairs was the prelude to his elevation. Now he was hanging on to the general’s every word.

The trophies brought by the regiment were: Abbas Mirza’s throne, seven cannon of Persian craftsmanship, the Ardabil library of old scrolls, and two paintings depicting Abbas Mirza’s victories.

The kurors constituted the heaviest load, the throne was the highest, and the dead library the quietest. At Ucar Fortress, the paintings had been seized because there was nothing else to be taken there. At least they could be presented to the Russian emperor so he could display them at his palace to French visitors.

“Soldiers! By spilling your blood in your first military action, you have had the opportunity to expunge the stain of your momentary delusion and to demonstrate your loyalty to the lawful authority!”

Their knee-high boots were covered with dust, and their faces were earthy in color, so unlike the general’s, as if they belonged to different nations.

The entire population of Tiflis had poured out onto the flat wide roofs to watch the parade.

Griboedov accidentally knocked against the tall bishop standing next to him on the terrace. In his forgetfulness, he muttered in French:

“Pardon …”

Not a single muscle twitched under the bishop’s thick purple vestment. The shining panagia8 on his chest looked like a bib; it was so hot that sweat dripped slowly down the episcopal nose.

Griboedov was peering at the soldiers, his eyes searching for somebody below.

“Our fairness and kindness will now demonstrate to our enemies that we desire not to enslave them but are seeking only to free them from tribulation and oppression. Soldiers! These trophies! These kurors! …”

It was becoming increasingly clear that the only tribulation experienced by the Persian people had been the kurors, from which they had now been freed.

“This seems to be from Tacitus,” said Zavileisky into Griboedov’s ear. He stood next to him. It was impossible to recall in such heat whether it was from Tacitus or from Karamzin.

Griboedov had found what he had been looking for.

That man standing below, in the front row, behind the kurors.

Without knowing quite why, Griboedov pulled off one of his white gloves, crumpling and crushing it. His hands were shaking.

The man’s face was shaven bluish-gray, like a dove, and was ruddy-colored under a tan, like a ham that had started to go bad. He was wearing a captain’s uniform, and he stood like the rest of them, upright and to attention, listening but not hearing the words being said, whether by Karamzin, Prince Kutuzov, or Tacitus—depending on the source of the general’s quotations.

Griboedov couldn’t have known that his words, courteous or harsh, the words with which he had addressed Abbas Mirza, jovial and urbane, would materialize in the dead kurors and the dead library in the square.

The general finished. The horse was prancing in place.

Then came a long-drawn-out, steady “hurrah …”

The soldiers’ mouths were open in a regular lineup, as if a dentist were walking along the line pulling their teeth.

Griboedov couldn’t have imagined that his kurors would be delivered by the man with the dove-gray face, the color of stale ham, the lean and upright man whose clownish name was uttered in whispers …

“Hurrah …”

… Captain Maiboroda, the traitor, the informer, who destroyed his benefactor Pestel, who brought him and a few more men to the gallows …

The hands in white gloves kept moving. Next to him, the bishop’s effete fingers rested on the railing.

Now, if the glove flew downward …

The glove flew downward.

The bishop watched it curiously as it twirled like a leaf, landed on the airless stones and stayed still.

The drummers beat the drums.

The march-past began. The ladies stirred on the terrace, like rose bushes come to life.

“Oh! Comme c’est magnifique!”

“Notre général …”

“Charmant!”9

“… mant …”

“Magnifique!”

“And yet, I think the rhetoric is from Tacitus,” said Zavileisky and winked at Griboedov.

But Griboedov’s teeth were bared; his lips were quivering. Zavileisky picked him up, and the servants began to fuss around him.

“Alexander Sergeyevich is not feeling well!”

Then there were congratulations from the amanates—tokens of loyalty from various tribes: well fed, half-starved, and completely starved, utterly impoverished. They were dressed in their finery for the occasion.

Five hundred captive Persians in perfect formation were paraded under a light guard. Naibs were treated to food. The guards stood at ease.

Refreshments were served on the terrace: for the exarch and the noble gentlemen of the clergy, for the honorary citizens and the captured Persian khans who had been brought without any guard at all: Alim, Hassan—the former sardar of Erivan and another one, the one with the thin beard.

Refreshments were served for Governor Zavileisky and Minister Plenipotentiary Griboedov.

Refreshments were served for the ladies of the nobility.

A public prayer was offered rather dashingly by the exarch, and there was a fair amount of cannon firing. On the terrace near the house, the carpets had been rolled out for the amanates and the artisans to sit on.

General Sipiagin walked about counting them with his finger. He counted five hundred men.

The singers, deliberately placed all over the city, mainly in the squares, sang national Georgian songs.

Dusty drums and trumpets, last used during the reigns of the Georgian tsars, had been taken out of storage and were sounding off.

The Georgian national dancers leaped up into the air athletically.

The amanates listened to the music, whose sounds always bring so much ineffable pleasure.

A great number of spectators watched from windows or from the rooftops. Wrapped timidly in their chadors, the women came out into the square.

The amanates were given five kopecks each; the widows got ten. The orphans ate roast lamb. General Sipiagin made sure that everyone had his due.

And the national dancers leaped up into the air.

The Tiflis merchants donated forty-six thousand rubles in paper money to charitable institutions.

By seven in the evening, everything was over.

Then the tables were laid in the hall for a hundred and fifty people.

And the festivities resumed.

Sipiagin spoke to a fat colonel, pointing with his eyes to Griboedov’s back and then to the hem of Nino’s dress at the other end of the hall:

“This is marriage à la mode, colonel. I can spot people in love at a glance. This is nothing of the kind. He has plans for Georgia, I know it for sure. What a shame, such a lovely girl!”

Still on the move, he scribbled a brief note, beckoned a footman, and instructed him quietly:

“To M-me Castellas, and let no one see it.”

He left the colonel, took Griboedov by the arm, hooked up Zavileisky in passing, and collapsed with them onto the sofa.

“What do you think of the music?” he asked with a twinkle in his eye.

“Where did you get the musicians?”

“Don’t they play well, Alexander Sergeyevich?”

“Not really.”

“This is how I got the musicians,” said Sipiagin, not in the least put out. “Five men are my menials, five are some crooks I came on by chance and one is an amanate of princely origins. And sometimes when I see them play, I ask myself: is that really my servant Vaska? And I tell myself: yes, that’s my Vaska. But with these black clothes on he is no longer the rascal Vaska, oh no. He is a musician, a bandmaster, a conductor.”

“So the bandmaster is your menial Vaska?”

“And note, Alexander Sergeyevich, how elevating it is, how ennobling, and how it contributes to bringing rapprochement between the two nations. The amanate is a bad musician; I hired him thinking that one day, perhaps he would turn into an indigenous genius.”

“There are no signs of it so far,” said Zavileisky respectfully.

“None whatsoever,” agreed the general. “But give him some time. Experience is everything, absolutely everything. All around us is experience.”

The general looked around with his fine gray eyes. Right opposite him was Mushtaid-Agha-Mir-Fat’h, the chief mullah of Tiflis. He looked self-important, wore a splendid robe, and his posture was reminiscent of the Orthodox bishop’s.

But from time to time, Mushtaid was obscured by the people engaged in the cotillion, in which the Russian ladies and the Georgian maids in their national costumes danced together. Nino floated by. In the far corner, a portly pair of Georgian princes played the card game lintourlu and an old Russian colonel sitting next to them with a hookah peeked into their hands.

“And all is politics,” said the general approvingly. “Everything that you see here is politics. I know that people censure me: Sipiagin is a spendthrift, Sipiagin is this and what not. But I am what I am: Sipiagin the politician.”

The general is being clever. He reclines his head. And without waiting for their reaction, he says:

“Politics, frontiers, they are not that simple. Easy to draw the boundaries, hard to erase them. What do I place in the center of politics? Exclusively spiritual needs.”

“But take for example …” begins Zavileisky.

The general interrupts him:

“For example, the khans. Defiant? Dissatisfied? Welcome to the party! Captains, junior officers—you are heartily welcome too, gentlemen. Don’t grouse about the fighting. Give them a warm welcome. The local nobs are furious about being looked down on?—make merry, gentlemen. You are a captive naib?” he asked Zavileisky. “Take a puff of the hookah, if you don’t fancy the dancing. And here’s something concerning you in particular, my dear Alexander Sergeyevich: show deference, try to like a person close at hand. Appearances make a great impression on people over here. And the same is true for Persia.”

“What reason do they have to love me, my dear general?”

Sipiagin comes back at him firmly:

“And what did they love Miloradovich for?”

“You don’t mean to say the Persians did actually love him, do you?”

“Everybody loved him. And what for? No special reason,” the general is triumphant, “because he was a Russian Bayard, un chevalier sans peur et sans reproche.10 He understood a man; he understood his spiritual needs. For example, he used to drink Zimla sparkling wine with Blücher. He didn’t care for French champagne all that much. Not a word was said between them while they were imbibing. Blücher had drunk more than he could handle, and blacked out. The adjutants picked him up from under the table and carried him to his carriage. And Miloradovich once told me: I am very fond of Blücher, he’s a good fellow, he said. The trouble is: he can’t hold his drink. But, Your Highness, I objected, as you did just now.”

The general nodded at Zavileisky: “Blücher doesn’t speak Russian, you don’t have a word of German, and neither of you knows French. What pleasure can you find in your companionship? And the count said to me then: Ah, who needs to talk! I don’t need words to know his soul. And I find him delightful for this precise reason: he is a soulful person.”

Griboedov felt a sudden desire to tickle Sipiagin. The general’s gray eyes were childlike and, looking at his torso, face, even his wrinkles, it was easy to picture him as a child.

“Oh,” says the general suddenly, “but Paris in those days was fantastic! What women! My God, what women! Combien de fillettes! One of them, Jeannette, danced on the table—sans dessous,”11 he whispers loudly, “no knickers—and the count threw flowers to her.”

Sipiagin spotted Eliza and Maltsov, jumped up, and dragged them over to his corner.

“It’s much cooler here, Countess. I hope the ice has melted in this heat? Have our sweet ladies warmed up? Here in the wilderness, our dear ladies have grown great in their pride.”

Eliza is reluctant to pay visits first, and so are the ladies. Sipiagin can’t stand Paskevich, nor can Paskevich bear Sipiagin. That’s why the general is looking after Eliza in every possible way. And now that they have come to know each other, the visits will follow like clockwork.

“I’ve been remembering, dear countess, my Bayard, Miloradovich. The number fourteen is of particular significance for me, dear countess. I was born on October 14, I joined the army when I was fourteen, as a sergeant,” the general smiles. “On October 14, 1812, I was appointed the chief of staff of the vanguard. In 1814, I entered Paris. Oh, Paris, Countess! What a heroic year it was! And on December 14, I lost my Bayard.”

“Count Miloradovich was your commander, wasn’t he?” says Eliza, just to say something.

“He was like a father to me. Oh, what a time it was for Russia! You wouldn’t believe it, Countess, but in 1812, on the way from Vyazma to Dorogobuzh, among the broken carts, killed horses, and scattered weapons I encountered … cannibalism.”

The countess looks at Maltsov meaningfully.

“Exactly that. Without flinching, the French carved the bodies of their fallen comrades, roasted them in the fires, and ate them.”

“Oh!”

The countess is seeking Griboedov’s protection.

“And how often, dear general, did you come across such cases?” asks Zavileisky sympathetically.

The general waves his hand.

“Often enough, but over the evening tea, our late Bayard used to tell us, his comrades, how during the starvation, he had happened to dine on his ammunition.”

Eliza drops her fan on purpose. The general bends to pick it up. Zavileisky continues to pry.

“How exactly did he eat his ammunition?”

“Your fan, Countess … Very simple. No fodder, no stray sheep, no preserves—and once, when not far from the town of Vyazma, the count had already eaten his horse’s hay …”

Eliza no longer looks at the general and chokes with laughter:

“What do you mean ‘hay?!’”

“This happened quite often,” the general closes his eyelids, “when things turned really bad: the count used to bring into his tent a bundle of hay from the stables and his doctor, a German, whose name escapes me right now—I have to check my notes … von Dalberg, I think …”

“Are you writing a memoir?”

“I was. Episodes from my wartime experiences. They will go to the grave with me … So, von Dalberg …”

“How absolutely fascinating!”

“Not really.” The general looks his usual kindhearted self. “Just some tactical considerations and a series of picturesque but—alas!—no longer important events … So von Dalberg used to select edible stalks for him. Countess, any news from our dear count?” asks the general, slightly flushed.

“How kind of you to ask. He is well and of good cheer.”

A nod from a man who is privy to the family secrets and sympathetic to them.

“I have a huge favor to ask Mr. Griboedov,” says the general at the end of the conversation. “I’d like the first issue of the Tiflis News to be adorned with your name, Alexander Sergeyevich. Since you are the main member of the committee.”

“Don’t you have enough material?”

“More than enough. Ours is an intellectual medium. And I do it gradually. At first something light—Features, Miscellaneous, Foreign News. And only then political and military articles proper. Pyotr Demianych has just submitted an article, a very entertaining one.”

“There will be wonderful entries in this issue,” confirms Zavileisky. “I’ve had so much fun reading them: one on performing fleas—I jest not, Countess—and one about a peasant.”

The general gave a grunt of displeasure, although the laughter still played in his eyes.

“Why not something about the performing fleas? These days, there are lots of them. And I have to confess that the one about the peasant is pretty curious too. You shouldn’t be too critical, Pyotr Demianovich.”

“Far be it from me,” says Zavileisky hastily. “The article about the peasant sounded interesting indeed, and I am amazed that the ecclesiastical censorship has passed it.”

“The ecclesiastical censorship!” exclaims the general, enjoying himself. “It was the exarch in person who told me the story.”

Eliza asks him:

“Tell us, dear general, about the peasant, please.”

“There isn’t much to tell, dear countess. It’s about a commissioner who was procuring grain somewhere in Imereti, bought some grain from a peasant, and died before he had a chance to return the ten sacks. The provisions committee sent its officers to the peasant’s homestead. But the peasant told the officials: first be so kind as to return my sacks. The officers must have been young and inexperienced, and they responded that since the commissioner had died, the peasant could ask God to return the sacks to him. A few days passed. I have no knowledge as to what the officers had been doing, but the peasant came back and told the committee: upon receiving your order, I asked God, and God directed me to the committee so that I can get my sacks back. The officers were amazed and told him: you are lying. And the peasant said: if you don’t trust me, ask God.”

Griboedov burst into happy laughter.

“Did the exarch tell you this story?”

“If you don’t trust me, ask him,” said Sipiagin and roared with laughter.

Eliza got up. She considered the conversation inappropriate.

Zavileisky slipped away. He had caught a glimpse of the Greek, Sevigny, and Dashenka in the distance.

Having found himself téte-à-téte with Griboedov, the general looked at him affectionately.

“I am getting old,” he said. “What a dancer I was in my youth!”

He seemed to have dwindled indeed, and his eyes were those of an old man.

Only now did Griboedov notice that the general had, as he himself would have put it, “imbibed.”

Suddenly the general took him by the arm and babbled, pointing at somebody:

“Tenez-vous, mon cher …”12

The slender-waisted Captain Maiboroda stood in a corner of the room.

“I profoundly dislike this creation of our era,” said the general and yawned. “This brings the Guards into disrepute. They could have let him stay in the army; they could have decorated him in one way or another; but why did they transfer him to the Guards? Such a Schermützel.¹³”

The general spoke as soldiers do. Schermützel stood for casualties, defeat, disgrace.

Griboedov was curious:

“And was it all right to let him stay in the army?”

The general responded confidently:

“It was. What else could they do with him?”

Griboedov smiled and laid his hand on the general’s red, weathered one.

“It’s perfectly all right for him to stay in the army,” repeated the puzzled general.

“And he’s all right in the Guards, isn’t he? He’s all right in the Guards too. And could even be made a colonel. And …” he nearly added, “or even a general.”

Sipiagin’s face screwed up. He puckered his fat lips.

“It won’t do to view the age like this. It’s entirely unbefitting, Alexander Sergeyevich, to take this view of it, now that we’ve got a grip on them, militarily speaking.”

And he rose, quite the old man, and looked around displeased. Having caught sight of the flowers in the vase, he gave a broad smile, tinkled his spurs, and straightened up his back, and with his laughing eyes, he said:

“I’ve completely neglected my duties. I’d better make arrangements for the fireworks.”

And he went off across the room.

Abu’l-Qasim-Khan came up to Griboedov. He was wearing a gold-embroidered gown and spoke French.

“I can understand, Your Excellency, how reluctant you are to depart for our poor Tabriz when life in Tiflis is such great fun.”

“I am not reluctant at all, Your Excellency,” responded Griboedov calmly. “I haven’t yet received my final instructions, or my credentials.”

Khan gave him an understanding smile.

“His Highness is eager to see you … and so is His Majesty.”

“And also His Serene Highness Alaiar-Khan, isn’t he, Your Excellency?”

“His Grace has entrusted me to convey his heartfelt gratitude to General Sipiagin for his courtesy during His Grace’s imprisonment. All is forgotten. You are being expected as an old friend. What beautiful music! When I was in Paris …”

But at this point, a strange rearrangement took place: His Excellency the Russian minister hid himself behind the khan and stooped a little. The Persian eye laughed, the Persian eye squinted, hoping to see a female skirt—a tall, infantry captain, corseted like a wineglass, passed very close to them. He had a narrow face; his side-parting was sleek and resembled Griboedov’s. Abu’l-Qasim-Khan said:

“Such an amiable and gracious atmosphere, but it’s far too hot, don’t you think?”

The khan was extremely polite. Griboedov had known him for a long time. He had nicknamed him khan sucré,14 and now everyone in Tiflis knew him by that name.

As for Sipiagin, he exchanged niceties in passing with the ladies and the khans, then freely and assuredly went out through the door and down into the garden, where the young M-me Castellas was expecting him.

A good half-hour was left until the fireworks; the night was growing paler, the intoxication fled his body, and he had no time to lose.

What women there were in Tiflis! My God, what women! Combien de fillettes! He could hear the bleating sound of the zurna, and somewhere in the distance, the lights in the city gardens remained on.

Emperor Alexander I referred to the Caucasus as “hot Siberia.”

That night, a gray canvas town of soldiers’ tents had been pitched outside the city. The quartermasters took the officers to their allocated apartments in town, and after the ball, they returned to their living quarters. But since about two thousand soldiers could not be billeted comfortably and safely so that they would not speak to any civilians and would not be in the proximity of any public house or nearby tavern, they were encamped beyond the city boundaries.

The canvas town was encircled by the military patrols assigned by Sipiagin. A sentry sent from Tiflis stood guard at each tent. The fighters who had demonstrated their military might could rest in peace, but when they went out to relieve themselves, they were met by the sentry’s watchful eye.

Mostly they were not asleep. Nothing rattles a soldier so much as a parade. Marches and battles knock the soldier out, and he sleeps like a log. But a parade keeps on throbbing throughout his limbs; his mouth is still filled with the cries of hurrah; bright spots stand out before his eyes: the banners, the generals’ breeches, the braided uniforms, and the archbishop’s garb on the terrace. One needs to smoke a pipe and to have some quiet conversation so that the body can shed its nervous tension, now no longer necessary, and relax, and at last, a whiff of somnolence soothes the eyelids.

In one tent, some soldiers were getting ready to sleep. There were ten of them. Two of them used to be noncommissioned officers, one a colonel, another a lieutenant, and six had always been privates.

It is not hard to demote colonels and lieutenants to soldiers, but the problem is where to place them after that. Both Paskevich and Emperor Nicholas were confronted with the problem but failed to solve it. At first, it was decided to place them in separate quarters and tents because in this way, they lacked the opportunity to instill any harmful ideas into lower ranks. But then, having no communication with anyone else, keeping to themselves, wouldn’t they find it even more natural to consolidate themselves in their harmful opinions, and since there were dozens of them, wouldn’t this lead to possible subversion, to some attempt at treason? So the decision was made to settle them in the camps and quarters together with the other soldiers, but under the surveillance of older and experienced noncommissioned officers.

That was why there were genuine soldiers in the tent and ones who had been demoted to soldiers: Akulev, Dmitriev, Gorkin, Shaposhnikov, Yeremeyev, Baikov, former noncommissioned officers, and now soldiers: Shutikov and Lomov, former Guards Lieutenant Nil Kozhevnikov and the former Guards Colonel, and now soldier, Alexander Berstel.

A corporal had just looked into the tent, seen to the roll call, and left.

Noncommissioned officers and corporals were not allowed to lodge with soldiers; they were supposed to stay nearby and to check on the sleepers twice a night.

A young, pale-faced soldier, Dmitriev, said:

“That bastard will wake us up again during the night. He keeps coming in and staring…”

He was lying on his greatcoat, which he had unrolled right at the entrance. It was very stuffy inside.

A gray-haired soldier, Akulev, stuffed his pipe and said calmly:

“It’s unlikely he’ll come back …”

He puffed on his pipe, blew the smoke out the door, directing it with his hand, and said again:

“It’s unlikely …”

And looking jovially at his comrades, he explained:

“He must have had a drop or two by now.”

He turned to Berstel, who pointed his gray mustaches at the floor and offered him his tobacco pouch:

“Alexander Karlovich, would you like some tobacco? I got some in Tabriz, three pounds in weight, dirt cheap.”

Berstel took some tobacco and lit up too.

They were the oldest in the tent.

Akulev was calm and talkative. A conversation before bedtime is more enjoyable for a soldier than reading novels in bed for a writer. And soldiers look forward to those conversations. The remark about the corporal, and to a certain extent the offer of tobacco, were a narrator’s prologue. When talking, Akulev always seemed to be addressing Berstel, while the others were just listeners.

“I bought the tobacco dirt cheap when we guarded Abbas, the shah’s heir” said Akuliev. “Is it any good, Alexander Karlovich?”

“Smells good,” said Berstel.

“Exactly why I bought it. Odintsov, two others, and myself were on guard. We saw a passer-by. If a human being walks there at night, it’s either a thief or a slut. He was the former. His nose was cut off, and parts of his ears were missing under his hat. He came straight at us. Odintsov waved his rifle at him, telling him to get lost. One has to admit that their thieves are much worse than ours. Without saying a word, he approached and showed us the tobacco, about five pounds of it. He let us smell it. I showed him on my fingers: how much? He showed me his hand with just two fingers left on it. The other ones were missing. In Persia, they chop men’s fingers off for thievery. We told him: if you’ve shown two fingers, you get two coins. He tried to object, Odintsov pointed his gun at him, as a joke. He saw that there were two of us, he was alone; he showed us his teeth and left.”

The pockmarked soldier, Yeremeyev asked:

“Tell us, guvnor, what has happened to Odintsov. Missing in action?”

“That’s because of Naib Naumov,” replied Akulev. “Naib Naumov sent him a note. He is a colonel with Samson Yakovlich Makintsev. Take a lookout, would you?” and he winked at Yeremeyev.

Yeremeyev got up and left quietly.

Five minutes later, he came back and waved his hand:

“Everything is fine. Speak freely. I went to take a leak. The sentry doesn’t understand Russian—must be one of the Georgians.”

“Naib Naumov is a big shot among Samson Makintsev’s officers. Samson Yakovlich sent him to Tabriz with a note tempting the Russian soldiers to remain in his kingdom. Odintsov hadn’t passed the note to anyone else. He was a loner. On his last night, when saying his goodbyes, he told me: we won’t meet again. I didn’t blame him. You can’t stop a man who is prepared to die. He was a lone wolf. They say that three more left too, not from our Moscow Regiment, but from the Horse Guards. And from the other regiments, a sergeant and a few soldiers. About two hundred people altogether. One master-at-arms left, and he had a medal and a cross. To start a new life. Yes.”

They kept silent.

“Yes,” said the lean and swarthy Kozhevnikov, a former second lieutenant, and sat up on his greatcoat, “we too serve for crosses—wooden ones.”

Akulev nodded to him.

“True. But nothing’s to be done.”

“How odd! A whole Russian kingdom in Persia?”

“So what?” said Akulev. “Haven’t you heard of the Oponian kingdom?”

“The Japanese kingdom is in Japan,” he said firmly. “And the Russian Oponia is the one to which the dissenters left under Peter the Great. There are ten Russian towns and the main one is called the Oponian Moscow. The Oponians have great respect for them, and they mostly trade in timber and fish. A sailor told me once.”

“Are there any soldiers?” asked Yeremeyev.

“Why would they need soldiers? They don’t trouble anybody, and nobody bothers them either. They don’t need you.”

Berstel was deep in thought. He tapped the tobacco out of his pipe:

“And what do you think, Akulev, is this true?”

“A sailor told me, Alexander Karlovich, and I think that if such a thing can happen in Tehran, in Tabriz, for example, why can’t it happen in Oponia? Samson Yakovlich is a big wig over here, he is larger than life, and did we hear a lot of him in Petersburg? And look what a kingdom he has set up, with more than three thousand people under his command.”

“And where did Samson Yakovlich appear from? How did he come about?” asked Dmitriev, who had been listening avidly.

“I’ve heard how,” said Akulev meaningfully. “Except it’s time to sleep.”

“Tell us, Akulev,” asked the soldiers.

“I can tell you, but keep in mind that I have never seen Samson Yakovlich myself. And it’s an old story. What is there to tell?”

He put the pipe into his pocket, pulled off his knee-high boots, looked at his comrades, saw that none of them seemed sleepy, drew a deep breath, and began.

THE STORY OF SAMSON YAKOVLICH

Samson Yakovlich was the son of a Cossack. He was fifteen when he was conscripted. He served in the Nizhny Novgorod Dragoons. When we fought near Erivan, his regiment attacked from the left flank. That was thirty years ago, when Pavel Petrovich was emperor. You might not remember him. Do you remember Alexander Pavlych? He is the one who stayed upright when on horseback. And Pavel Petrovich leaned back in the saddle. And he used to wave with his glove. He was the sternest emperor on the throne, a no-nonsense man. Well, it’s a different story.

The service was hard—not much free time at all. Everything had to be just so, not a hair out of place. The commanders were eager to do their best to distinguish themselves. They were a grim lot, dry as hell.

The general there had a funny name, let me remember … Gryzenap, yes, that was his surname. He was a German. A martinet. And then there was a lieutenant, also German, a well-known figure. His nickname was Rozyov “The Bird,” or “Punch.”

He was indeed just like a bird: like a cuckoo, no tent of his own, swear to God. He spent the nights with his mates. A leather cap, a cloak, and a whip—that was his uniform. Punch, in other words. He always distinguished himself at riding, though; couldn’t get enough of the drill.

Riding at the manège, riding without a saddle on a longe, with a saddle without stirrups.

Rank drill.

Over the hurdles.

Over the ditches.

There was just no rest from the drill. Even horses collapsed.

Rozyov the Bird invented his own term of abuse.

He would shout at whoever made a mistake during the drill:

“You nag!”

If the squadron made a wrong move at parade, it would be the same thing:

“You old nags!”

“What kind of jumping is this, you nags? Why are you gawping at me like that, nags? I’ll court-martial you, nags!”

Everyone was sick and tired of hearing it: no matter what you did, you were called “nag.”

We were fighting in the Caucasus at that time, fighting this lot, the locals.

Samson Yakovlich was twenty-five then, and already a sergeant-major. Rozyov the Bird was his direct superior, and above him was Gryzenap. Samson was some man, strong and mighty, a handsome fellow with a mop of curls—a Cossack’s son. The whole regiment knew him as Samson Yakovlich, and that’s what we called him—respectfully.

So a squadron stopped by the river. The natives, the bunch we were fighting at the time, were on the opposite bank. And one of their noblemen came over to negotiate, a strapping chap and a dead shot. They were asking if there was anybody who’d want to fight it out with him instead of wasting lives from both sides. If he won, the Nizhny Novgorod Regiment would retreat; if he were beaten, his lot would leave. These days, they wouldn’t allow it: now you have to fight no matter what, but back then, the mad Rozyov the Bird said he’d allow it.

“Which of you has no bride to lose?” he asked.

Samson Yakovlich thought about it for a while and then said:

“Permission to fight on behalf of the squadron?”

So the native got off his horse and Samson Yakovlich got down too, and the fight got under way. It swung first one way then the other, with no clear winner.

So they got back onto their horses, fanned out in opposite directions, picked up their lances, and charged at each other. And Samson Yakovlich speared that man with his lance like a cobbler with an awl, and the native flew right out of the saddle.

Samson Yakovlich had a charmed life, you could say—neither bullet nor lance had his name on it.

His people on the other bank wailed out, but they’re mostly true to their word over here, so they had their little squeal and then retreated behind the mountain. It was agreed that they’d be given a day’s grace. That was the arrangement.

Samson Yakovlich stood there staggering, blood all over his face—it hadn’t been easy for him, but he’d freed the whole squadron for a whole day. He was strong and tall. These days, he’s an old man, but they say that he can still bend a ramrod. At that time, he was only twenty-five.

So he stood there staggering and looking about him. He was looking for the horse. The native he’d killed had a very good horse. And since Samson Yakovlich was the winner, the weapons and the mount of his opponent were lawfully his.

He had no interest in the man’s weapons. He just stood there, tottering and looking all around, trying to work out where the horse had gone to.

The horse hadn’t cared much for standing still—he was pretty wild, untamed, and was useless at dressage. He’d bolted.

Rozyov the Bird had gone after him and was nowhere to be seen. He liked horses a great deal too and was trying to get himself a good mount so as to get one up on Gryzenap.

He came back an hour later. He was riding the new horse, the dead man’s, leading his own by the bridle. Samson Yakovlich stood there waiting.

“Thank you,” he said, “Your Honor, for bringing my horse back to me.”

Rozyov the Bird told him:

“This horse is too good for you, nag! Take mine.”

Samson Yakovlich just looked at him, gave a little laugh, and said very quietly:

“Hand back the horse, Your Honor, or I may accidentally tickle you with my lance, and it could be embarrassing if you went down like one of the natives.”

Rozyov pulled his saber out and barked:

“Arrest him.”

The soldiers refused to obey.

For the next two days, the squadron was in combat; everything was fine. When they returned to the camp, they found out what was to happen.

In the native language, it is called “Kazik-chekmen”—“red caftan.”

They set up a trestle, everybody stood in rows, and Samson Yakovlich was brought out, his arms twisted behind his back. Rozyov the Bird presided over the flogging personally.

“The mare hasn’t been out for a while and needs to be ridden. Ride fast, girl!” said Samson Yakovlich.

Rozyov said: “Not a chance in hell, she won’t save you, nag!”

But the mare did her bit. Afterward, he lay for two weeks unable to move, and then got up. The horse was Rozyov’s; there was nothing to be done about it.

Samson Yakovlich turned bitter. He stole into the stables and ripped open the horse’s belly with a knife. If it couldn’t be his, then it wouldn’t be Rozyov’s either.

And he took off: first to the Sea of Azov, and then to Constantinople. But he didn’t like the Turks all that much. In those days, an Indian in the Shirvan kingdom had a huge fishing lease. The kingdom itself had not yet been conquered. Samson headed there. He fished for ray-finned fish with a silk net. Then he began to fish for himself. Got rich. As soon as he was flush, he began to booze and carouse. He was well off but bored. So back he went to Russia and wandered about the Caucasus searching for his regiment. He tracked it down and started circling around. He wanted to find his comrades—he hadn’t forgotten them, you see. He’d grown long hair and a beard and let them in on the secret. At first, they didn’t recognize him. Then his old mates talked it through, and a hundred of them decided to leave with him. They left in tens and then got together at an appointed place. When they approached the Julfa outpost on the border, they wondered how to cross it when they were being searched for in the woods. Samson Yakovlich split them into groups of ten again. He got them to grow long hair and beards and to tattoo the images of saints on their arms, just like mine—you see how I have a cross tattooed with gunpowder? He got them cassocks and priestly hoods. At the border, the Armenians were trading in fake papers. You could be a soldier or a merchant, it didn’t matter; they could fake documents to make you into a Greek priest or a monk, for example, who was going on a pilgrimage to Jerusalem to kiss Christ’s tomb. That suited them fine, and they crossed the border as monks. Each of them carried a fistful of Russian earth in his handkerchief. Once they’d crossed over, they hugged each other, broke down and wept. At that point, even Samson Yakovlich became disheartened, but then he recovered and told them to sing out because so long as they kept singing, they’d feel as if they were back home again. As soon as they stopped singing, they’d remember that they were strangers in a foreign land.

Since then, nobody has ever sung as well as they do with Samson Yakovlich. Dragoons are easily the best singers.

He soon presented himself to the shah. One day, the shah went out for a ride and saw a stranger strolling along. The shah told his carriage to stop and beckoned Samson Yakovlich over.

“Who are you, where are you from, and what do you do? I don’t know you.”

Samson Yakovlich answered very calmly that he was born in Moscow and grew up in Petersburg, and told him where he’d been and what he’d done, the whole story, and now he was from the Makin kingdom, which meant that he was a Makinian. And he was an experienced man in military service. He told him that he was a Cossack’s son.

The shah liked him very much, told him to get into his golden carriage, and took him to his palace.

And Samson Yakovlich became known as Makintsev. The Persians were only just beginning to get an army together, and they used to take a pauper or a lot—that’s a thief—stick a gun in his hand—and there they had their soldier, a slipshod bungler, good for chasing frogs from under the cannon. Samson Yakovlich began to form a battalion. Our Russian prisoners in Persia all joined to a man and became grenadiers or bahaderan, which means “heroes” in Persian, and distinguished themselves. And now he has three thousand men under his command.

Samson Yakovlich has reservists as well. All in order, ready for action. When a soldier wanted to get married, Samson had no objections. He allowed them to settle, gave them a plot of land. Now that they have wives, the families live in their own houses. Women in Persia are all right—not much to look at, but at least they are quiet.

They also said later on that the shah’s daughter was seeing Samson Yakovlich. And that they made love every day. Until the shah found out. But I don’t believe it. They say that the shah didn’t punish Samson Yakovlich; instead he threw his daughter into the pit. Who knows? Anything’s possible, of course.

And now Samson Yakovlich is called Samson-Khan, and his people are the shah’s personal guards. The shah talks to him every day. (That’s the custom.) He has deputies, officers called naibs. The main naib’s name is Borshchov.

Samson Yakovlich got married for the second time—after the shah’s daughter, that is. His own daughters are quite grown up by now. And over here he had left the love of his life, a Cossack woman, shapely, hale and hearty, as white as a lily. When he was hiding in the woods, she used to bring him food and drink. And she had a son by him. In Persia, women are dark-skinned and not much to look at.

The order from Petersburg is to keep an eye on this Cossack woman and not to let her leave for Persia.

Samson Yakovlich’s hair turned gray on account of this. He’s still pining after the Cossack woman. He’s unreachable now, the general in chief of the Persian army, in the grenadiers. Our commander is nothing in comparison. But at night he locks himself in his room and drinks vodka. On those nights, they’re afraid to bother him. He drinks and weeps. The shah himself is afraid of him at those times.

He keeps crying out:

“Where is my homeland? Where is my sweetheart? Where is my lily?”

How much native earth can you bring with you in a handkerchief?

The night was beginning to get lighter.

The white tent looked from the outside like an animate but long-dead creature.

All were asleep.

Kozhevnikov turned on the other side on his greatcoat and whispered to Berstel:

“Are you awake?”

“I can’t sleep, Nil Petrovich.”

“What did you think of the Oponian kingdom and Samson the Giant?”

“I quite liked it, Nil Petrovich.”

“We must have different tastes.”

“When the verdict was announced to me,” Berstel said, “I thought: dear Lord, to be demoted to the rank of private, regardless of length of service! I thought it was the end, the pits. But it wasn’t the end. I am happy.”

Kozhevnikov suddenly sat up.

“I can’t understand you, Alexander Karlovich. With all due respect, but is the aim of one’s existence to march, to talk about the Oponian Kingdom, to sleep on the bare earth?”

“Nil Petrovich, you are young. With God’s help, you’ll yet have time to make a career. All I have to lose is ten years of my life. Bear in mind that our friends are either in the same or an even more difficult position.”

“But you, Alexander Karlovich, are paying merely on suspicion of your friendship with Pestel. You did nothing wrong. You are only ‘implicated.’” To visit such a punishment on a man of your age and your status—do you think it fair?”

“And what do you propose to do, Nil Petrovich? When I was young, I too approached life logically. There is injustice, ergo it must be eliminated. But reason is not as strong as it appears. Not much reason was left after Pestel’s execution. You have to understand this too.”

Kozhevnikov put his arms round his knees and rocked on the spot:

“And the parades, and all the shitheaps of eloquence? Not all our friends are having a hard time, Alexander Karlovich. And since you’ve mentioned friends, who looked at us from the terrace, wearing a gold-embroidered uniform?”

“Who? The officials.”

“No, not only the officials. Our teacher, our idol, our Samson the Giant. I still keep a single sheet from his comedy. I’ve kept it safe. And now I am going to tear it into scraps and roll cigarettes out of them. The person who looked at us from the terrace was Alexander Sergeyevich Griboedov.”

When God has raised in him a spirit

Burning for beauty and creative art,

Then flaming ruin—they yell—is your vocation,

And call you dreamer, dangerous at heart.

The uniform!—it’s their one consideration!

He recited the lines in whispers, filled with emotion, expressing his disgust. And suddenly, he lay down on the greatcoat and added, almost calmly:

This man will scale the heights, I prophesy,

For silent men today are praised on high.

Berstel chuckled.

Kozhevnikov looked at him askance and narrowed his eyes:

“You probably think I am ridiculous, Alexander Karlovich, don’t you?”

He flinched.

“Not at all, Nil Petrovich, I’ve always liked young people. But I don’t put so much score by Mr. Griboedov’s comedy.”

Kozhevnikov stared fiercely at the stain that was Berstel’s head in the semidarkness.

“I believe that Chatsky is wasting his time speaking out at the ball. People come to a ball to dance, and he with his sermon is really out of place there. He too is dressed for dancing. And besides he is driven by wounded pride.”

“But these are just appearances, Alexander Karlovich,” said Kozhevnikov, bewildered.

“No, I don’t believe it’s just appearances. Uniform, you say. A uniform is a mere appearance too. You are upset with him mostly on account of his golden uniform, not because he was on the terrace.”

“Alexander Karlovich, I don’t understand you.”

Kozhevnikov didn’t get it.

“I’m just saying that if you don’t judge Chatsky by his ball costume, why do you judge his author by the golden uniform?”

Berstel closed his eyes.

“And what is your judgment, Alexander Karlovich?” asked Kozhevnikov shyly, looking at the old gray stain that was Berstel.

“My judgment is as follows, Nil Petrovich,” replied Berstel, without opening his eyes, “that not knowing Mr. Griboedov closely, I cannot judge him fairly. And now we need to get some sleep, because reveille will sound soon.”

And Kozhevnikov was soon fast asleep and slept peacefully.

Berstel grunted; he was sleepless. He smoked another pipe and then, for a long time, stared at the gray canvas of the tent; and it seemed to him to be the sail of a ship and the ship would stand still and sail again, and then stand still again, and so continue without end. And its movement began to take the shape of the familiar and long-forgotten Latin, which sounded like a monk’s prayer:

O navis! Referent in mare te novi

Fluctus. O quid agis! fortiter occupa

Portum.15

Then the ship stood still, and Bestel fell asleep.

On that same morning, troops were marching through the wooded mountains toward Akhalkalaki. The man in charge, Chief Siege Engineer Colonel Ivan Grigoryevich Burtsov, marched with them.

On that same morning, Rodofinikin, as yellow as a lemon, woke up and hawked into the spittoon. Having spent masses of money, his secretary had reported from Tiflis that the Castellas business was doing well, and he had no plans to sell. Griboedov’s information had proved to be false.

On that same morning, Abu’l-Qasim-Khan was busy writing his report to Abbas Mirza.

On that same morning, Nino woke up in her tiny bedroom.

On that same morning, Sashka woke up not in his own bed, but in the chambermaid’s.

On that same morning, Dr. McNeill arrived in Tiflis.

On that same morning, Griboedov was staying in bed.